Читать книгу Kenelm Chillingly — Complete - Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton - Страница 28

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“BY the powers that guard innocence and celibacy,” soliloquized Kenelm Chillingly, “but I have had a narrow escape! and had that amphibious creature been in girl’s clothes instead of boy’s, when she intervened like the deity of the ancient drama, I might have plunged my armorial Fishes into hot water. Though, indeed, it is hard to suppose that a young lady head-over-ears in love with Mr. Compton yesterday could have consigned her affections to me to-day. Still she looked as if she could, which proves either that one is never to trust a woman’s heart or never to trust a woman’s looks. Decimus Roach is right. Man must never relax his flight from the women, if he strives to achieve an ‘Approach to the Angels.’”

These reflections were made by Kenelm Chillingly as, having turned his back upon the town in which such temptations and trials had befallen him, he took his solitary way along a footpath that wound through meads and cornfields, and shortened by three miles the distance to a cathedral town at which he proposed to rest for the night.

He had travelled for some hours, and the sun was beginning to slope towards a range of blue hills in the west, when he came to the margin of a fresh rivulet, overshadowed by feathery willows and the quivering leaves of silvery Italian poplars. Tempted by the quiet and cool of this pleasant spot, he flung himself down on the banks, drew from his knapsack some crusts of bread with which he had wisely provided himself, and, dipping them into the pure lymph as it rippled over its pebbly bed, enjoyed one of those luxurious repasts for which epicures would exchange their banquet in return for the appetite of youth. Then, reclining along the bank, and crushing the wild thyme that grows best and sweetest in wooded coverts, provided they be neighboured by water, no matter whether in pool or rill, he resigned himself to that intermediate state between thought and dream-land which we call “revery.” At a little distance he heard the low still sound of the mower’s scythe, and the air came to his brow sweet with the fragrance of new-mown hay.

He was roused by a gentle tap on the shoulder, and turning lazily round, saw a good-humoured jovial face upon a pair of massive shoulders, and heard a hearty and winning voice say,—

“Young man, if you are not too tired, will you lend a hand to get in my hay? We are very short of hands, and I am afraid we shall have rain pretty soon.”

Kenelm rose and shook himself, gravely contemplated the stranger, and replied in his customary sententious fashion, “Man is born to help his fellow-man,—especially to get in hay while the sun shines. I am at your service.”

“That’s a good fellow, and I’m greatly obliged to you. You see I had counted on a gang of roving haymakers, but they were bought up by another farmer. This way;” and leading on through a gap in the brushwood, he emerged, followed by Kenelm, into a large meadow, one-third of which was still under the scythe, the rest being occupied with persons of both sexes, tossing and spreading the cut grass. Among the latter, Kenelm, stripped to his shirt-sleeves, soon found himself tossing and spreading like the rest, with his usual melancholy resignation of mien and aspect. Though a little awkward at first in the use of his unfamiliar implements, his practice in all athletic accomplishments bestowed on him that invaluable quality which is termed “handiness,” and he soon distinguished himself by the superior activity and neatness with which he performed his work. Something—it might be in his countenance or in the charm of his being a stranger—attracted the attention of the feminine section of haymakers, and one very pretty girl who was nearer to him than the rest attempted to commence conversation.

“This is new to you,” she said smiling.

“Nothing is new to me,” answered Kenelm, mournfully. “But allow me to observe that to do things well you should only do one thing at a time. I am here to make hay and not conversation.”

“My!” said the girl, in amazed ejaculation, and turned off with a toss of her pretty head.

“I wonder if that jade has got an uncle,” thought Kenelm. The farmer, who took his share of work with the men, halting now and then to look round, noticed Kenelm’s vigorous application with much approval, and at the close of the day’s work shook him heartily by the hand, leaving a two-shilling piece in his palm. The heir of the Chillinglys gazed on that honorarium, and turned it over with the finger and thumb of the left hand.

“Be n’t it eno’?” said the farmer, nettled.

“Pardon me,” answered Kenelm. “But, to tell you the truth, it is the first money I ever earned by my own bodily labour; and I regard it with equal curiosity and respect. But if it would not offend you, I would rather that, instead of the money, you had offered me some supper; for I have tasted nothing but bread and water since the morning.”

“You shall have the money and supper both, my lad,” said the farmer, cheerily. “And if you will stay and help till I have got in the hay, I dare say my good woman can find you a better bed than you’ll get in the village inn; if, indeed, you can get one there at all.”

“You are very kind. But before I accept your hospitality excuse one question: have you any nieces about you?”

“Nieces!” echoed the farmer, mechanically thrusting his hands into his breeches-pockets as if in search of something there, “nieces about me! what do you mean? Be that a newfangled word for coppers?”

“Not for coppers, though perhaps for brass. But I spoke without metaphor. I object to nieces upon abstract principle, confirmed by the test of experience.”

The farmer stared, and thought his new friend not quite so sound in his mental as he evidently was in his physical conformation, but replied, with a laugh, “Make yourself easy, then. I have only one niece, and she is married to an iron-monger and lives in Exeter.”

On entering the farmhouse, Kenelm’s host conducted him straight into the kitchen, and cried out, in a hearty voice, to a comely middle-aged dame, who, with a stout girl, was intent on culinary operations, “Hulloa! old woman, I have brought you a guest who has well earned his supper, for he has done the work of two, and I have promised him a bed.”

The farmer’s wife turned sharply round. “He is heartily welcome to supper. As to a bed,” she said doubtfully, “I don’t know.” But here her eyes settled on Kenelm; and there was something in his aspect so unlike what she expected to see in an itinerant haymaker, that she involuntarily dropped a courtesy, and resumed, with a change of tone, “The gentleman shall have the guest-room: but it will take a little time to get ready; you know, John, all the furniture is covered up.”

“Well, wife, there will be leisure eno’ for that. He don’t want to go to roost till he has supped.”

“Certainly not,” said Kenelm, sniffing a very agreeable odour.

“Where are the girls?” asked the farmer.

“They have been in these five minutes, and gone upstairs to tidy themselves.”

“What girls?” faltered Kenelm, retreating towards the door. “I thought you said you had no nieces.”

“But I did not say I had no daughters. Why, you are not afraid of them, are you?”

“Sir,” replied Kenelm, with a polite and politic evasion of that question, “if your daughters are like their mother, you can’t say that they are not dangerous.”

“Come,” cried the farmer, looking very much pleased, while his dame smiled and blushed, “come, that’s as nicely said as if you were canvassing the county. ‘Tis not among haymakers that you learned manners, I guess; and perhaps I have been making too free with my betters.”

“What!” quoth the courteous Kenelm, “do you mean to imply that you were too free with your shillings? Apologize for that, if you like, but I don’t think you’ll get back the shillings. I have not seen so much of this life as you have, but, according to my experience, when a man once parts with his money, whether to his betters or his worsers, the chances are that he’ll never see it again.”

At this aphorism the farmer laughed ready to kill himself, his wife chuckled, and even the maid-of-all-work grinned. Kenelm, preserving his unalterable gravity, said to himself,—

“Wit consists in the epigrammatic expression of a commonplace truth, and the dullest remark on the worth of money is almost as sure of successful appreciation as the dullest remark on the worthlessness of women. Certainly I am a wit without knowing it.”

Here the farmer touched him on the shoulder—touched it, did not slap it, as he would have done ten minutes before—and said,—

“We must not disturb the Missis or we shall get no supper. I’ll just go and give a look into the cow-sheds. Do you know much about cows?”

“Yes, cows produce cream and butter. The best cows are those which produce at the least cost the best cream and butter. But how the best cream and butter can be produced at a price which will place them free of expense on a poor man’s breakfast-table is a question to be settled by a Reformed Parliament and a Liberal Administration. In the meanwhile let us not delay the supper.”

The farmer and his guest quitted the kitchen and entered the farmyard.

“You are quite a stranger in these parts?”

“Quite.”

“You don’t even know my name?”

“No, except that I heard your wife call you John.”

“My name is John Saunderson.”

“Ah! you come from the North, then? That’s why you are so sensible and shrewd. Names that end in ‘son’ are chiefly borne by the descendants of the Danes, to whom King Alfred, Heaven bless him! peacefully assigned no less than sixteen English counties. And when a Dane was called somebody’s son, it is a sign that he was the son of a somebody.”

“By gosh! I never heard that before.”

“If I thought you had I should not have said it.”

“Now I have told you my name, what is yours?”

“A wise man asks questions and a fool answers them. Suppose for a moment that I am not a fool.”

Farmer Saunderson scratched his head, and looked more puzzled than became the descendant of a Dane settled by King Alfred in the north of England.

“Dash it,” said he at last, “but I think you are Yorkshire too.”

“Man, who is the most conceited of all animals, says that he alone has the prerogative of thought, and condemns the other animals to the meaner mechanical operation which he calls instinct. But as instincts are unerring and thoughts generally go wrong, man has not much to boast of according to his own definition. When you say you think, and take it for granted, that I am Yorkshire, you err. I am not Yorkshire. Confining yourself to instinct, can you divine when we shall sup? The cows you are about to visit divine to a moment when they shall be fed.”

Said the farmer, recovering his sense of superiority to the guest whom he obliged with a supper, “In ten minutes.” Then, after a pause, and in a tone of deprecation, as if he feared he might be thought fine, he continued, “We don’t sup in the kitchen. My father did, and so did I till I married; but my Bess, though she’s as good a farmer’s wife as ever wore shoe-leather, was a tradesman’s daughter, and had been brought up different. You see she was not without a good bit of money: but even if she had been, I should not have liked her folks to say I had lowered her; so we sup in the parlour.”

Quoth Kenelm, “The first consideration is to sup at all. Supper conceded, every man is more likely to get on in life who would rather sup in his parlour than his kitchen. Meanwhile, I see a pump; while you go to the cows I will stay here and wash my hands of them.”

“Hold! you seem a sharp fellow, and certainly no fool. I have a son, a good smart chap, but stuck up; crows it over us all; thinks no small beer of himself. You’d do me a service, and him too, if you’d let him down a peg or two.”

Kenelm, who was now hard at work at the pump-handle, only replied by a gracious nod. But as he seldom lost an opportunity for reflection, he said to himself, while he laved his face in the stream from the spout, “One can’t wonder why every small man thinks it so pleasant to let down a big one, when a father asks a stranger to let down his own son for even fancying that he is not small beer. It is upon that principle in human nature that criticism wisely relinquishes its pretensions as an analytical science, and becomes a lucrative profession. It relies on the pleasure its readers find in letting a man down.”